


Chest Cratered With Light

by Band_obsessed



Series: Lost Time [4]
Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 4
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Panic Attacks, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-13
Updated: 2020-09-13
Packaged: 2021-03-06 20:53:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,153
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26445175
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Band_obsessed/pseuds/Band_obsessed
Summary: But the cold. That damned, perpetual reminder of loss, of a pain that haunted her like a phantom limb. It trailed across her skin with aching fingers, gooseflesh blooming in its wake. The Prydwen wasn’t that different from the vault. Not in the temperature and the tonnes upon tonnes of indifferent, uncaring metal.ORThe Prydwen brings back more memories of the vault than Savannah can handle.
Relationships: Paladin Danse/Female Sole Survivor, Paladin Danse/Sole Survivor (Fallout)
Series: Lost Time [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1881085
Comments: 3
Kudos: 26





	Chest Cratered With Light

**Author's Note:**

> This is the longest 'vignette' (i don't think it can even be called that at this point) I've written for this series so far, and I'm sorry it took me so long to get out!
> 
> Title is from [Augmentation](https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poetrymagazine/poems/153225/augmentation) by Helen Mort. It's a wonderful poem and I highly recommend it.

The mess hall was empty. Savannah didn’t know what she’d been expecting at three a.m. — another soldier, perhaps. Or at least one that wasn’t stationed on patrol. But the tables were vacant, the chairs holding nothing but their own weight. Savannah perched on a bar stool hesitantly, curled an arm around her ribs and tried her best to fight off the lingering cold. It didn’t bother her as much as it used to. At least not like it did in those first few months, fresh-faced and wide-eyed in a time that hadn’t ever belonged to her. The nightmares had left mostly, too. Faded into the background in the wake of everything else she’d suffered. The cold had begun to seem like less of an issue in comparison to ferals and raiders and deathclaws. That and the sick, twisting feeling of a knife at her throat or a gun pressed to her head.

But here? God, the Prydwen had been cold enough when she was still in her armour, clad in heavy leather that was all but stifling on the ground. It was nothing short of freezing now all she had on was an oversized, loose shirt and a pair of sweatpants a scribe had managed to salvage for her. They almost fell down her hips but she’d be damned if she was walking around this…deathtrap bare-legged.

And her hands were shaking too much to even think about fastening the straps on her armour.

It didn’t help that there was nobody at her back. Nothing to fill the silence — that cold, detached ambience of shifting metal and the thudding of power armour. Even Deacon had long since left, no doubt gathered whatever intel he could scrounge and hightailed it back to HQ. Savannah didn’t blame him — God knows how much he hated heights. He’d almost passed out when she was still planting MILAs for Tom. It would’ve been funny if she hadn’t been so concerned.

Seeing Deacon vulnerable was like watching the ocean roll in reverse.

She hadn’t noticed the startling absence until Danse had left. Retired back to his own quarters after showing her to her bunk. It had been warm, then — even out on the forecastle — with Danse’s arm around her shoulders. Warm and safe. But the loneliness had echoed the longer she stared up at the high domed-ceiling, the cold settling across her feet, creeping up her legs — seeping in through the breaks in the ambience and spilling shadows across her mind.

She hadn’t minded being alone, once. Or the old-Savannah hadn’t. Could spend days locked away behind closed doors, curled up with a good book or the radio playing faintly in the background. But she’d been _safe_ , then. There wasn’t the looming anxieties of dirty water or lack of food or when the next rad storm would blow in. She didn’t jump at every sound, didn’t need to keep knives hidden in her boots just in case. And, in truth, she couldn’t remember the last time she’d been _this_ alone. It must have been before Goodneighbor, hell, before Preston, even. It must’ve been back in the vault—

_No._ That was a door she had shut a long time ago. Thrown out the key the first chance she’d got.

But the _cold._ That damned, perpetual reminder of loss, of a pain that haunted her like a phantom limb. It trailed across her skin with aching fingers, gooseflesh blooming in its wake. The Prydwen wasn’t that different from the vault. Not in the temperature and the tonnes upon tonnes of indifferent, uncaring metal.

Nobody had heard her scream, down there. There was nobody left to. Just a wall of ice and rows upon rows of frozen, lifeless eyes.

_Stop._

She sucked in a breath and tightened her arms around her torso, held herself together like she’d fracture if she stopped. Like she’d splinter into a thousand fragments of herself — each one lost in a way she’d never be able to replace.

She reminded herself that there was ground below her — that she was flying _over_ it, not entombed beneath it. But right now it felt as distant as her old life did, perpetually out of reach, a hazed memory she couldn’t keep in focus. Every clang of metal from somewhere above her rang out like a gunshot; echoed dully in the empty, vacant space — ricocheted like a bullet from the walls until it pierced through her mind; embedded itself firmly between Nate’s eyes.

Oh God.

Oh _God_.

There was no safety behind her eyelids — only more memories. Nothing but a headful of ghosts. Of mirages. Of Shaun being taken, screaming, out of her sight — the cold, hard glass beneath her fist not even rattling in its frame. The Prydwen swayed and Savannah could swear she felt the wind, that frigid gust of iced air carrying like a stray breeze straight from Vault 111. A remnant straight from her past.

Had she ever even resurfaced? What if everything so far had been nothing but an illusion, a simulation made by her dying brain, sick with guilt and grief and still slowly freezing in that tomb. Alone. Always alone.

Or was something else wearing her body now? Some scarred and broken thing, hiding in the shadows with a vengeful patience that promised only cries of retribution. Most nights it was hungry. Now it was ravenous, stalking the deepest recesses of her mind, twisting at the door handles of memories she’d half-forgotten. A snippet of Nate’s laugh, the colour of his eyes, the sun across his face.

Fuck, she hadn’t even buried him. Left him down there in the ice and the cold and the vast emptiness of—

“Savannah?”

She jumped, curled her fingers around the hilt of her blade and unsheathed it before she could think — before the voice could settle in her mind, connect to memories of safety and protection and _warmth._

“Sorry,” she gasped, sheathed the knife back into her boot with shaking hands. She folded them together before Danse could see the tremors, the shaking twitches spreading along her fingers. “Sorry, you startled me.”

“No, I should be the one apologising. It wasn’t my intention to catch you off guard.”

He lingered for a moment, shifted the weight between his feet like he was unbalanced and Savannah belatedly realised that he wasn’t in his power armour. Clad only in a ratty t-shirt and threadbare trousers. She would’ve made a joke if she’d been up to it. Would have let her eyes wander over the exposed skin, the lean muscles, the dark hair winding up his arms. But her mind was still trawling through months worth of memories, of slowly rising ice water.

“Mind if I join you?” he asked, loud in the persisting silence, and Savannah nodded, shifted to allow him room to pull out the stool beside her. She couldn’t meet his eyes. Just stared resolutely at the table in front of her, counted the stains and flecks in the material. Vinyl, probably. She wondered where they’d found it.

Danse had told her about the Prydwen more times than she could count. Recalled stories about its construction back at the Police Station. He’d sounded so _proud_ — as if it had been a personal achievement. As if he’d spent a decade building it with his own two hands.

She’d never seen him so passionate about anything.

She wondered what he’d say, now. What he’d think if she told him how much she hated it, how she couldn’t wait to be back on the ground, back in the arms of that sticky, humid heat. Out of this insufferable cold.

A hand rested on her bare arm, large and warm and she jolted in surprise, kicked the counter with the toe of her shoe. The sound was loud in the quiet, echoed down the hallway and Danse’s fingers squeezed around her forearm gently — a soothing, if hesitant, gesture.

“You’re shaking,” he noted with a frown and Savannah nodded dumbly, closed her eyes and sucked in a breath through her nose. Swallowed past the lump in her throat, the heat rising behind her eyes.

“M’fine. Just cold.” Her voice shook, spasmed in time with her muscles, trembled around the syllables. Frustration flared hotly in her chest, unfroze the blood in her veins and kicked at her heart. She was supposed to be _over_ this. She _was_ over it. It shouldn’t bother her anymore. Not like this. She had bigger things to worry about now. Actual, real problems like the Institute and _Shaun_ and tracking down every single son of a bitch that had played a part in it all.

But all it took was the feeling of gooseflesh across her arms and her thoughts rested heavily on _that_ place — the blood dried against Nate’s head, so dark it was almost black.

She hadn’t even taken his ring. Couldn’t bear to _touch_ him. To feel his cold, lifeless skin. Just stumbled down the walkway until her legs collapsed, sprawled her on the floor in a shivering, sobbing mess. Convulsed from the cold so violently she was sure she’d splinter her teeth.

Her jaw spasmed in remembrance, teeth clicking together and she curled her fingers into her palms until her nails bit at the skin there — pressed crescent moons into soft flesh.

There was nothing to stop it happening again. Nothing to stop her losing everybody else, nothing to stop the cold reaching for her, curling fingers into her bones and—

“Can you stand?” Danse asked, _soft_ , so soft, and something snapped, a dam breaking. She barely felt the first tear but she felt the trail of warmth it left, the flush of humiliation to her face.

God, what must he think of her now? crying because she was cold. It wasn’t the behaviour of a soldier. It wasn’t even the behaviour of an adult. But she’d never felt like more of a child than she did then. Never felt so small and afraid and alone.

She scrubbed a hand down her face, pressed her balled fists against her eyes so hard the sockets ached. She would’ve kept pushing if Danse hadn’t pried them away, curled his fingers around her wrists and tugged them back.

“Look at me, Knight,” he ordered and Savannah did — even if only because she bristled at the rank, the cold sense of detachment. “Can you stand?” He asked again, firmer, and Savannah gritted her teeth, knew distantly what Danse was trying to do, what he _was_ doing, but that cold fear had settled too deeply in her veins for her to know how to quell it.

She stood abruptly, standing on shaking legs that threatened to buckle and tried desperately not to think of the cold or Shaun or Nate or being buried under God only knows how many tonnes of metal.

Alone.

Frozen.

Warmth bloomed across her shoulder, bled down her arm and she choked, leaned into Danse’s touch as much as he’d permit her to.

His hand squeezed lightly at the junction of her neck. “Follow me.”

She did, focused intently on the sound of her footsteps against the metal grating, the faint signs of life — the patrols, the deep, steady breaths of Quinlan as they passed his room, the tapping of keys on Cade’s terminal, the warmth at her side and that grounding, soothing touch.

She didn’t ask where they were going until Danse pushed open a door and ushered her through. She heard it close with a second later, felt Danse’s presence behind her, standing tall and firm. A wall of radiating heat.

He gestured to a worn, tattered sofa at the end of the bed. “Sit.”

She didn’t even think about it this time. Just clung to the orders and let them guide her — focused her attention on something other than the past. There was safety in that — in letting him lead where she couldn’t. In letting him guide her. She could do what he asked. Could follow his commands as blindly and as easily as she could breathe. She trusted him. Always.

The sofa was more comfortable than it looked — plusher, softer — and when she sat down she sank into it, pressed her knees together and clasped her hands tightly around each other — squeezed at them so hard she was worried the joints would pop.

She didn’t notice Danse leave her side but she felt the rush of cold that followed in his wake and if she listened — strained her ears for something other than the roar of blood — she could hear the sound of fabric rustling; that soft, creased noise, a shadow more than anything solid. She didn’t dare look up. Just watched her knuckles whiten as she squeezed at her hands and grappled with the weight of her fear, her guilt, her embarrassment.

It felt like trying to wrestle a tidal wave into submission.

Danse’s hand came into view, clasped loosely around a jumper. She steeled herself, gathered what little composure she could find and tucked it in her chest, folded it end-to-end until she could lift her gaze.

“Take it,” he murmured and Savannah did, swallowed past the tightness in her throat.

It was a well-worn faded shade of green, soft in her hands — softer than she’d been expecting. He held her gaze expectantly and she tugged it on, slipped her arms through the holes until her fingers peeked out the other side.

It was too big. Far too big. Hung off her in waves, bunched messily around her waist, pooled in her lap. But God it was _warm_ and smelt faintly of something clean — abraxo, maybe — and, irrationally, of safety.

It smelt like Danse.

She cradled her hands in front of her face and buried her nose into the sleeves.

“Would you like to talk about it?” he asked, perching on the other side of the sofa. She could feel his eyes on her temple — that warm, assessing gaze.

She shook her head vehemently and clenched her jaw. “No.”

“Knight.” There was disapproval in his voice. Heavy and unmistakable and _cold_ and she buckled under the weight, threw her hands up to grip shakily at her hair as she careened forwards.

“What do you want me to say?” she snapped, voice breaking around the words. She didn’t wait for him to answer. “That I can’t stand the cold? That every time I so much as shiver all I can see is that damned fucking vault or a bullet between Nate’s eyes and them taking my baby? That I wonder when I’ll wake up this time? What I’ll wake up _to_? That sometimes I don’t know who the fuck even walked out of that hell hole six months ago because it sure as hell wasn’t who I used to be?”

She stopped, heaved in a breath and flicked her gaze up to meet his face — measured and unreadable. She wanted to scream. She almost did.

“Everyone _wants_ something from me. All the fucking time. And all I want is to find all the people who played a part in all of this — every single person who murdered my husband, who stole my _baby_. And I keep getting…tangled in all this other shit — caught up in politics and plays for power and saving every damn person who needs it when I don’t even know how to save myself and I—“ Her vision swam and she blinked, felt the warmth dissipate down her cheeks, gather at her chin.

She burned with humiliation, bright and hot.

Her mouth kept moving. “I don’t belong _here._ I’m not supposed to be here. This wasn’t supposed to happen to me. Nate—“ She squeezed her eyes shut and tried to steady her breathing. “God, at least he would have known how to _handle_ this.” His face flashed behind her eyelids, whole and alive and smiling. All cobalt blue eyes and glittering amusement. When she opened them again all she saw was Danse; the gentle, sympathetic slant of his mouth, the furrow between his brow.

Her chest heaved, buckled under the weight of the entire damn ‘Wealth.

Danse reached a hand across, rested it firmly on her knee and she clasped hold of his fingers before she could think better of it — clung onto that warmth, that grounding touch.

“He was a soldier too, you know?” she choked out around a laugh. “Enlisted when he was barely legal and _fuck_ if he wasn’t military to the core. He’d spent most of his damned life fighting, Danse. He _knew_ how to cope with it. And I’m— God, I’m just a _lawyer._ I didn’t even know how to fire a damn gun six months ago and now I’m expected to—”

She was crying openly now, breath hitching around the words and she couldn’t force them back, couldn’t take back the truths she’d spilled, the noise that she’d scattered across the silence. It lingered like a storm cloud, like the static before thunder, heavy and charged.

“I don’t want to be here,” she gasped, tucked her chin to her chest and felt her neck strain against the position, the rush of blood and shame to her cheeks.

The sofa shifted, gave under Danse’s weight and she could _feel_ the hesitancy in his movements, a sense of uncertainty that seemed to cling to him whenever she was around. Such a far cry from the composed, measured man she had first seen. But now his fingers twitched against her hand, mouth opening before closing again.

He placed his other hand on her arm, a brief, ghosting touch before retracting it entirely and Savannah had no excuse for the way she chased his touch. Threw herself into his arms like he was the only solid thing in her sight — like only his touch would ground her.

She didn’t want him seeing her face. Didn’t think she could stand that look in his eye any longer. That sad sort of sympathy that toed dangerously close to the line of pity. His shoulder was warm, all bone and hard muscle, and she pressed her face into the material of his shirt, breathed as deeply as she was able around the lump in her throat.

For a moment there was nothing. Just her fingers curled into his shirt — desperate, frantic — and the rhythm of her tears dropping down to his shoulder until it was as damp as her face.

Then he returned the embrace. Hesitant. Rested a clumsy hand to her back and held it there awkwardly. She’d only ever hugged him once before, weeks ago, back at the police station. But that had been different, then. More a pseudo-touch than an embrace and, in truth, Savannah only remembered pieces of it — the rest lost to that delirious haze of pain and meds. There was an intimacy to the touch now — present in the gentle press of his palm to her back, his chin at the crown of her head, the thudding of his heart beneath her hand.

She wondered if he’d ever hold her like this again. If she’d ever feel the warmth from his skin in quite this way. The thought made something desperate, something longing, unfurl in her stomach — tinged with that frantic edge of exhaustion, that razor-sharp blade of desperation. She shuddered, panted wetly against his skin and shifted closer to him, looped her arms tightly around his neck until she was half-pressed into his lap — fingers buried amongst the hair trailing down his nape, the stubble at his throat catching her cheek.

The minute his arm tensed she knew what was to happen. Felt the unease spread through his body like a ripple before a wave, a grey sky before a storm. Could almost hear the words work their way up from his chest to his throat, curl around his tongue. She didn’t want to hear them. Not now. Not ever. But she knew it was inevitable — that tug of war between her touch and his morals that only ever resulted in raw, bloodied hands and a bruised ego.

The callouses healed just as quick as they formed.

“I’m not sure how…appropriate this is, Knight.”

His hands drew back, settled stiffly by his sides and anger flared hotly, mingled with grief and fear until her fingers itched until she wanted to put her fist through something. Punch her knuckles bloody. Instead, she stilled, withdrew her fingers from his hair and pushed herself from him.

Wiped at her eyes with her — _his_ — sleeves and swallowed thickly.

“Right,” she said, flat. Her hands shook at her sides, an ache spreading across her chest so painfully she struggled to breathe. “Because we wouldn’t want to upset decorum.”

The floor was farther than she remembered it being and when she stood it was on unsteady legs, adrenaline and fatigue wrestling with the remnants of her consciousness — fighting for the last meagre scraps of what she had left to offer.

A vertibird. She needed a goddamn vertibird. Now. Needed to get back on the ground, back to Home Plate or Goodneighbor. Hell, even HQ sounded a damn sight more homely than anything the Prydwen had to offer.

At least Deacon would push her away with a hell of a lot more tact.

“Savannah—“

“Don’t, Danse. I’m not…I’m too _tired_ for this right now. Please just…” She steadied herself, pulled in a breath as deep as her chest would allow and wondered, briefly, how the _hell_ she was going to make it up the stairs back to her bunk, back to her armour, her weapons. “You’ve made it very clear where you stand on… _this_.“ She gestured, vaguely, to the space between them, that aching, widening rift.

She clenched her jaw as his face contorted into a wince.

He gripped her wrist, held her steady. Firm. “That’s not what I meant.”

“Yeah? Because I don’t know many other ways I can take it.”

“I’m your commanding officer, Knight, and you are under my charge. It’s a gross abuse of authority for me to—“

She spun around with far less coordination than she would have liked. Her wrist burned in his grip, caught with a painful friction as she turned. “Has it ever occurred to you that sometimes I don’t _want_ to be a soldier? That all I fucking want is someone I can _talk_ to. I could care less about ranks, Danse. I’m not a child — I don’t need looking after or monitoring or whatever the hell else it is you think it’s your duty to do.”

He blinked at her, eyes wide and _hurt_ and guilt gnawed at her stomach, curled its way around her throat.

“I’m sorry.” Her shoulders slumped, eyes burning. “I didn’t…I didn’t mean to snap. I’m just tired. It’s been a long few days, you know?”

He didn’t. She hadn’t told him about Kellogg yet. About the way, something in her had splintered. How she’d broken down and screamed her throat bloody, clawed her skin raw. If Deacon hadn’t have been there to catch her in the aftermath she wasn’t sure where she’d be.

Probably with one less bullet in her chamber.

Certainly not here — standing, shivering and crying, in Danse’s quarters.

His hand tightened around her wrist, tugged in an aborted motion.

“Damn it all to hell,” he grunted, more to himself than anyone else but she heard it anyway. Went to turn back around just as he stepped forward, as he wrapped his arms solidly around her and tugged her against him so firmly she had no choice but to follow — to tilt her head against his neck and return the embrace. Engulfed in nothing but warmth and that familiar scent — metal and soap and a hint of whiskey.

She gave up trying to choke back the tears. Let them spill unchecked from her eyes along with the small, broken gasps from her mouth. Belatedly she realised he was hushing her gently, running a large palm in circles across her back. It would have felt patronising if it wasn’t so genuine.

“I’m sorry,” she croaked brokenly and tried desperately to ignore the way his neck felt beneath her lips, the rough brush of stubble under his jaw. “God, I…You must think I’m so weak—“

His breath caught — a pained, winded sound — and he silenced her, dragged a palm gently down the back of her head. “Savannah, I could never.” She shook against him, fumbled blindly for his hand and laced her fingers between his. Pressed this close and she could feel the callouses on his palm winding up his fingers. Hardened skin from building and mending and constant use. It was grounding in a way nothing else had been. “What you’ve endured…I’ve seen even the best soldiers buckle under less. There’s no shame in seeking support. As your mentor it’s—”

He caught himself, thumbed gently at her jaw in a silent apology and she sank against him further. This was the furthest she had ever gotten at breaking through his walls — had only glimpsed the man beneath the rank once or twice before now. But it was an intoxicating feeling, an addicting challenge. To push until something gave — the barest hint of flesh underneath steel, the shock spreading across his face before he could fight it down.

And now he was so warm around her. All strong, wiry muscle and almost searing heat. So _human_ , too, out of all that armour. She closed her eyes and could almost hear the steady rhythm of his heart, could certainly feel it against her lips.

“You’re not alone, Savannah,” he said, pressed the words against her head and she clung to him tighter, exhaled shakily against his neck. It would be so easy to tilt her face, to angle it upwards and press her mouth to his, trace the plush fullness of his bottom lip with her tongue. Too easy. She had spent weeks wondering what his mouth would feel like against her own, how he’d react.

Whether he’d hold her like he always did, gently; treat her like she was fragile, breakable. Some untouchable, pre-war artefact — a goddess that he didn’t know how to worship. Or whether he’d grip her tighter. Whether the tension coiled around his muscles would snap in a fit of need, of desperation. That his hand would finally drop the table, all of his cards laid bare in front of her.

But there was the undeniable chance that he was just as likely to push her away. Press his hands firmly to her shoulders and twist out of her reach. That his eyes would harden completely, solidify into steel. It wasn’t a risk she was willing to take. She couldn’t lose his soft gaze when he thought she wasn’t watching, the way he’d trace the lines of her hips with his eyes, follow the upward tilt of her mouth.

She kissed his neck instead, blamed the boldness on the exhaustion clinging to her. It wasn’t a proper kiss, more a light ghost of her lips but his fingers twitched regardless, the hand on her ribs tightening momentarily. His heart thundered beneath her mouth, a frantic rhythm and she smiled sleepily, pushed her luck and pressed her lips over his pulse point again.

“Thank you,” she whispered, slow and tired before he could say anything. Before he could push her away or draw attention to her ministrations.

He swallowed thickly and she felt the clench and bob of his throat. It was heady, being this close. Intoxicating in a way nothing else ever had been. He was so warm against her she could barely remember what being cold felt like. Couldn’t feel anything other than that drowsy heat. Even balanced almost painfully on the balls of her feet as she was her eyes drooped regardless, closed against her will.

She didn’t notice her arms loosen around his neck but she felt it when they sagged, dropped to hang loosely around his waist, lax and pliant.

She could stay here — wanted to desperately. Wanted to sleep curled up in his arms instead of the cold, impersonal embrace of the bunks. It was doubtful he would permit it but it was a nice thought to entertain, to let play out behind her eyelids. To imagine how he’d feel against her, pressed along her back or tugged against his chest. Safe and warm.

“Anna?” he murmured, a rush of his breath more than a word and a part of her tensed, clung to the inflection of the name. It warmed in her chest, sank down to her stomach and spread like liquid heat through her veins — golden and bright. Felt alarmingly like the late autumn sun on her skin, the gentle kiss of dawn, of waves at the shore. She wondered tiredly whether he had meant to say it, rehearsed what he might call her if he were allowed. If the shackles of duty were unbound for a day, an hour, a second.

It was a far-cry from Deacon’s ‘Vanna’ — softer, more unsure. As if the syllables felt just as foreign on his tongue as they did to her ears. As if he couldn’t quite believe he had voiced them aloud.

Her chest fluttered, coiled around itself until all that remained was that warmth — the slow unfurling of something she refused to name.

A beat later and she was weightless, cradled to a broad chest as the world tilted on its axis before righting itself again — sharpening into the rustle of blankets, a pillow placed gently beneath her head.

She stretched out, slow and lazy — mumbled his name and felt a hand rest on her forehead, pushed her hair gently away from her face — untamed and undoubtedly a knotted mass but she pressed up into his touch anyway, sighed contentedly when his fingers skimmed down her face.

“Rest,” he ordered, soft, and Savannah shivered as his breath fanned across her hairline, spilled down her brow. “I’ll wake you in a few hours.”

She tried to reply but her tongue got caught in her mouth, snagged on fatigue and the clinging grip of sleep. A warmth bloomed across her head, focused on the stretch of skin between her eyes — gentle and dry, his lips chapped against her brow.

With the last vestiges of her energy, the remnants of her coordination, she clasped hold of his wrist, held as tightly as she were able. Feared, for a moment, that he would leave. Would walk out the door and leave her alone with the memory of his touch and shrouded in nothing but his scent. Left in that aching loneliness and that rolling, paralysing cold.

The mattress dipped, sagged beneath Danse’s weight and only then did Savannah relax her grip on his arm, let her fingers cradle his wrist more than hold it in place. When his other hand dragged gently through her hair she slumped, boneless, into the mattress.

**Author's Note:**

> Will I ever learn how to end things properly? No <3
> 
> As always comments and kudos are so incredibly loved and cherished, please consider leaving some if you enjoyed <3


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